Dear Heavenly Father, I Am Your Soldier
by Meanderings
Summary: Jeanne use to not believe. When she was struck by sickness when she was young, she saw that miracles really could happen. God made miracles happen, Jeanne was that miracle.


**Rating: **PG  
**Warnings:** None  
**Notes:** I typed it. I lost inspiration half-way through. I came back to it and finished it as best as I could. I'm not very happy with it, but eh, it's as good as it will ever get.  
Oh, and this hasn't been edited by someone else.

* * *

**Dear Heavenly Father, I am Your Soldier**

**

* * *

**I had been a vain, little girl when I was younger. I had a good reason though; as egotistical as this may sound, I was absolutely stunning with a petite figure and flowing blonde-gray hair and these large, soulful ruby eyes. Of course, everyone had their bad qualities. 

I was such was a brat. I wanted this and that and that thing over there just because I wanted them. In the end, most of the things I bought ended up in the closet. My mother and father disapproved of how I was spending their money, but they couldn't deny their angel anything. No one could.

If I wanted a dog, I'd get one. If I wanted an A on a spelling test, the teacher'd give me one. If I wanted to become Pope, though I would never dare, there was a chance that it was possible.

People couldn't blame me for my behavior though. It all traced back to my parents. You see, when I was about, oh I think three, people started noticing me and gave gushing compliments about how adorable I was. Comments such as, "Oh, she's such a little doll," and "My, it's little Cinderella, how beautiful," was commonly heard; and my parents' head inflated a bit too much and bought everything their adorably little girl wanted, only to find that they had spoiled her a tad bit too much as I grew older.

I knew I was conceited and I didn't care. I loved the compliments and the envious looks. Yes, I was too young for romance, but that didn't stop anyone from noticing me. I was France's little angel, the modern day Joan of Arc, had I actually acted the part.

Then flu season hit France like a hurricane and I fell victim. Poor little me, ha. Everyone sent cards to me, always adding wishes for me to get better at the end. My parents, Jacques and Mona, tried their best to cure their darling, but no avail, I fell deathly sick.

I didn't like the fact that I had to drink a lot of orange juice. I absolutely hated orange juice, it was a common fact, and I would throw an irritable tantrum every time tried to give me a glass. It didn't help that I regurgitated nearly everything I ate as well. Now that I look back on it, I'm sure that sometimes I did so in purpose just for my attention. My, was I a horrible little girl back then. Needless to say, me already thin body became even bonier and my parents sent me to the hospital.

Three weeks passed and people were feeling better all except for me. I remember lying in the scratchy cot, sleeping or staring at the wall, still not drinking orange juice. Instead, I opted for tomato juice. Picky girl, wasn't I? Most of my time was wasted reading novels in French, English, and Japanese, oddly enough.

As the sickness wore away, I began to eat more, but just barely, to joy of many. I would have to say the serving size I ate most of the time then was no bigger than an egg. I never quite regained my entire appetite and found sugar to be repulsive. Another week passed since I was admitted to the hospital and I was finally strong enough to walk around. Had I been queen of the world, all my minions, excuse me, I mean followers, would have rejoiced for seven days.

When I returned home, the first thing I asked for was a mirror. Typical. Mona and Jacques, as I was allowed to call my parents by their names, were somewhat put off that I was still obsessed about her looks, but at least I hadn't fell into depression. They gave me a mirror and left me in my room to observe myself. If there was nothing wrong with me doing so.

I heard a guest lady outside my room, whom had come by to visit, say to another guest, "She'll leave the room in about an hour, but after I saw the state of look their daughter was in, I doubt it. Both Mona and Jacques doubt it, too. Poor dears."

I placed the mirror on my many vanities and adjusted it so it was tilted up to my face. My tiny mouth was already frowning and when I looked into the mirror, my frown deepened drastically.

"Oh, how horrible this is."

My full, bouncy waves of blonde hair were now limp, but still full, and had started growing in a gray color. My hands picked at my hair, searching for one blonde strand. Nope, nothing. The corners of my mouth dipped even lower.

My hair was gray. Gray. I wanted to shriek, but that wouldn't be lady-like. At least it wasn't elephant gray or the gray of old people's hair; it was a nice pretty silver color. My eyes sparkled slightly from the thought. Silver hair was nice and pretty; people would love it.

As I peered closer, I saw that my complexion was still fine, but was lacking. . . this healthy glow. Pale and white I was fine with, but I looked like a ghost and my cheeks were almost sunken. Had I been any paler, my skin would have been translucent and being able to see one's vein was certainly unattractive.

Skin and bones. That's all I was. The angel lost her wings.

So that was how anorexia felt.

The amount of tears I shed only increased when the doctor said that the only way to put on some weight, regain that glow and shiny hair was to eat, but I couldn't force myself to eat as much as before. Alas, I was also still too weak to exercise to regain my strength. I sat on my bed, picking at the laces of my dress, frowning out the window. To hell if it gave off a bad impression.

There was no way I could train then; my parents had been greatly disappointed when they heard that. They had hoped that their little girl would have grown up to be a strong shaman.

On an April 14, I finally said something that wasn't pessimistic, but my request perplexed Mona.

"Take me to a church, please. A cathedral, I don't care which."

Mona had grown up in a Catholic family and was rigid in her beliefs; at one point in her life, she wanted to become a nun. But I never showed interest in the religion and actually was against it when Mona had dragged me too many times to attend the church and so she gave up. To say that she was shocked to hear her daughter ask that was an understatement. She had dropped a tray of china and didn't care that hot tea was soaking into her socks.

After a while, my mother finally snapped to her sense and clasped her hands together, crying to the ceiling, "Oh, thank you Lord for a second chance!"

* * *

The aisle was empty and the sunlight through the glass window filtered through as rays, as if Heaven itself was shining upon the blood red carpet. I felt myself calm down suddenly, as if I had washed myself clean in a river, but the guilt of my past actions was still there. I could have sworn that there was a reassuring presence standing next to me, opening a new world up to me. 

My small, steady steps were light and quiet against the velvet of the rug as I walked towards the front row of seats. As I stood underneath the beam of light, my eyes fluttered closed as warmth rushed over me.

Slowly dropping to my knees, my hands clasped in together with my head lifted upwards, I began purification, in my own point of view. True, I could never clear all my sins, but God could forgive me.

"Heavenly Father,

Forgive me for being so selfish in the past years and please forgive this selfish request as well. I had fallen sick and am trying to recover, but I am still weak. I pray that you give me strength to grow stronger; I am afraid that I will die. I am afraid! Please, show mercy."

I wiped a tear, hoping that God had heard me. I had made my commitment. I laughed softly, thinking that it was almost absurd that I was depending on the deity that I didn't even know really existed. Then again, I had heard of miracles that came true because of believing in Him.

The blind regained sight.

The impaired could walk.

A homeless man formed a healthy family.

People who had their life turned around.

I would become one of those miracles.

Yes, that was it. God had placed that horrible sickness on me as punishment for my many years of denying His existence.

I returned from the church, feeling light-hearted and lively. That had been my fourth time going to the church, though this time I went alone. Mona noticed, with glee, that color was returning to my cheeks. I had noticed as well.

By the end of the first week in May, I had already ready fifty pages of the Bible. Every day I was found with my nose in the leather-bound book, my soft-spoken voice uttering passages over and over, and every night I kneeled at the bedside and prayed.

My mother was delighted with the change. There was no doubt that I, her daughter, would become a much purer child. Oh, Heavens bless me. And so my journey to rebirth started.

I suppose you could consider it as redemption.

* * *

"Dear Heavenly Father, 

Thank you for all you've done for me so far. May you continue giving me strength to return to full health. I have also heard about one of my classmate's condition. I pray that she will recover completely from her ailment, just as you have done for me, and that her family stays strong.

I also need to confess something to you, Father. This morning I was looking at myself in the mirror vainly, telling myself that I was prettier than others. Forgive me for being so shallow. I pray that eventually, I will learn to recognize others and myself for who they are instead of what they look. Even the dirty beggar may have a pure heart.

I also met a homeless man a few days ago. Again, may he find a place to shelter him for the upcoming rainstorm. Thank you for giving me a roof to live under.

Amen."

That was how I began. Whatever tragic event, or even a slightest problem, I heard about, I prayed for it to get better. I became so involved with the Church that my mother began fantasizing about becoming a nun now that there was someone else to share her beliefs.

I felt like I had done a good deed when I saw the change in my mother's enthusiasm in talks about religion with her lady friends.

On a Thursday, I went to the Church after school. Usually, the Church was empty since no service was held on Thursday. I was surprised when I stepped through the old building's doors to see a small child with his head bowed, praying reverently.

Not wanting the startle the little saint, I took my time to slowly and silently walk down the carpet as if I was a thief.

His beautiful, hazel eyes fluttered open when I rested to a stop next to him. The blush on his round face was probably due to embarrassment of being caught praying. I smiled gently.

"There's nothing to be ashamed about. There's nothing wrong with showing that you follow God."

Happy that he had done nothing wrong, the little boy beamed. He was such an adorable thing, mostly likely only five or six at the time. I was nine, having spent two years reworking my life.

"Are you an angel?" he timidly asked, looking up at me with amazed, curious eyes.

"No, I am simply a follower of God."

He seemed satisfied with the answer and didn't insist that I looked like an angel. I hated it when people said that. How could they compare a human, who has sinned most of her life, coveted other things to magnify beauty, to an angel? I will never understand.

"Have you come to pray, sister?" he asked, shuffling his feet.

"I have." I kneeled and gazed up into his face, smiling still. "Would you like to pray with me?"

"Yes please!" he nearly squealed.

"All right." I clasped my hands together, facing the glass windows and prepared to weave the letter to our Father.

"Oh, what's your name?"

The boy seemed surprised that I asked. "Michael."

I smiled and nodded.

"Dear Heavenly Father,

I thank you for giving me an opportunity to meet such a sweet child. I am always grateful when there are new people to meet because of Your creation of mankind.

Thank you for putting the food that will be on the dinner table and safely guiding me to this church after school."

I cracked an eye open and side-glanced at the boy, who had once again bowed his head deeply.

"You go on," I whispered.

His shaky, cute voiced echoed pleasantly in the Church. "Thank you, Father, for letting me meet another sister. She's really nice. I want to be as nice as her someday.

I want to pray again that my parents will get better really soon. I'm really worried, God. I love them a lot."

He trailed off, probably not knowing what else to say. I muttered a shocked, "oh." That poor dear! I picked up eagerly.

"I pray that Michael's parents will recover completely from whatever makes them sick and will be able to care of Michael. I pray that you bless him and his family with happiness and strength to overcome this ordeal. Just as you have done for me, I pray that Michael will receive the same care.

Amen."

The last word was said by both of us in an ushered voice.

After a while, Michael turned to me and smiled. Come to think of it, it was the first time I had seen him smile. He had a tooth missing.

"Thank you for praying for my mommy and daddy," he said, looking at me with sincerity and the most gratefulness I had ever seen anyone possess.

Then he looked at his feet with a sad expression. "Do you think they'll get better? They've been sick for a week."

I was still on my knees and I raised a hand to cup his cheek. I knew that the action gave him the warm reassurance that I received during my fourth time at the church.

"Don't worry. They will get better, I promise you." I truly meant it. I really hoped that Michael's parents would recover and be able to raise this sweet child into a man the world can be proud of. I would be there to support his every step if I had the chance.

He hugged me tightly around the waist and gave me a hard squeeze before backing off. Lights seemed to dance in his eyes. "I believe you. You are one of God's messengers!" He left shortly after saying that, waving me good-bye and said that he would miss me. I would miss him as well.

His words left me thinking. Was I really a messenger of God? No, the Pope was the messenger of God. But those in missionaries are also considered as God's messengers. I could not be an angel, never, but I could be one of God's many messengers. Those words may have come from a small, innocent child, but they still filled me with warmth and a sense of fulfillment and accomplishment.

My mind was set. I took my belief to the extreme, going as far as wearing a chastity belt. Simply praying was not enough to cleanse my sins of being ignorant. My life would be dedicated to carrying out God's orders, whatever they may be.

* * *

The tournament to be crowned the Shaman King was about to begin. My parents had no interest, but I couldn't deter mine elsewhere. I had to win it, I didn't know why, but I just had to. At that time, my shaman powers had developed into something great and I already begun spending long nights in the Iron Maiden. 

In those nights, I cried and screamed, wanting to get out, but I held on. I told myself that my pain was nothing like the Lord's son, that if I died from this, I died from knowing the pain the Lord's son went through. I told myself that suffering through this pain would purify my being, bringing me closer to the Lord.

Iron dresses had also replaced the chastity belt.

I had done this all without inspiration, just from spur of the moment. People questioned my decision, but I never had a proper answer, just, "I felt like it." One day, while praying in the church again, I received my answer.

At first it was just birds chirping and there was wind so strong outside that it could be heard indoors and sounded like a person attempting to whistle. None of that disturbed me while I prayed for a strong heart. Then something caught my ears. It was a voice that was clear enough to be next to my ear, but sounded so distant it was like the remains of an echo.

Breaking out of my prayer, I looked around the church and found nobody. I continued my prayer and heard the voice again, but this time it was strong, reverberating, and warm and it filled my mind and the church.

I dare not repeat the Lord's words.

But He told me that the Devil had came back and had taken form of a man. Evil was his only intent and if he succeeded, all of the human race would be no more. Such knowledge made me shiver even in the warm air. The Lord told me more and then His voice faded into a whisper. Now I knew how astounded Moses felt when he faced the Burning Bush.

Then it hit me, a revelation. Just as God had chosen Moses to save His people, God had chosen me to rid the world of this Devil by winning the shaman tournament. I knew that all my suffering, though I shouldn't call it that despite the pain I put myself through, had not been for nothing. I had my answer now.

Not many are rewarded for their faith in the Lord, but I had been blessed unlike any other.

No, Michael, I am not God's messenger anymore.

I am the Lord's will.

* * *

**  
R/R please.  
I love it how people fav. a story without reviewing it.  
But yeah.  
LE END.**


End file.
